


Worse Than Death

by daasgrrl



Category: Red Dwarf, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crack, Gen, Humor, Metafiction, Post Reichenbach, Red Dwarf fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock begins his day dead, and things just go downhill for him from there.</p><p>Note: Fusion fic. Contains no actual Red Dwarf characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Than Death

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks to **evila_elf** for being a non-Dwarf guinea pig
> 
> You know how sometimes there are ideas that are strange and senseless and completely unworkable, and you have to write them anyway? This is one of those times. Hopefully understandable without having seen _Red Dwarf_ , because considerable and detailed liberties have been taken with backstory, but it'll probably seem even weirder than it is.

Even in deep space, some things never changed. Actually, _especially_ in deep space, some things never changed. Like the scenery.

“Oh, god, I’m so utterly bored.” Sherlock stalked across the room and flung himself dramatically onto the bottom bunk. Considering his lack of physical substance, it was an impressive feat.

“Oh, god, not this again.” John put down his ten-year-old copy of _Saluton!_ magazine, salvaged from his shipboard clinic rooms, and glared at him from his seat at the table. “Look, Sherlock, you’re bored, I’m bored, we’re all bored. I’m bored of you complaining about being bored. Why don’t you go help Martha organise the sock supply cupboards again? You seemed to enjoy that last time.”

“She never listens to me! Plains, stripes, argyles, I said, _not_ argyles, stripes, plains. I’ll never understand why we rescued her from that rusting hulk in the first place.”

“Probably because I saved your life, dear.” Martha looked up placidly from dusting the viewscreen. She wore a flowery blue apron over her black metallic casing, with matching earrings lending a touch of femininity to her squared-off silicon head. “You remember, from that horrible man who was about to crush your light bee?”

Sherlock waved a negligent hand in the air. “Yes, thank you, Martha, I do remember. Your previous owner was rather a nasty piece of work.”

Martha and her ex-owner had survived the crash landing of their tiny ship, hence the distress signal it had been broadcasting ever since, but after many subsequent years of isolation and abuse, she had apparently had just about enough. John, Sherlock and Greg had responded to the distress call just in time to provide her with both a useful distraction and a convenient opportunity to gain her freedom with a handy bazookoid. Permanently. Afterwards, Martha had instantly reverted to the sweetness of her usual programming, but the memory was vivid enough that even Sherlock usually remembered to mind his manners around her.

“Still, I’m ever so grateful to be off that desolate planet at last.” Martha had now moved on to the shelves, and was carefully dusting around Sherlock’s mould collection.

“We’re very lucky to have you, Martha,” John said soothingly.

Sherlock sniffed. “Yes, because some of us are too lazy to wash our own shirts and darn our own jumpers.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk! I’m so sorry we can’t all just snap our fingers and ask Molly to change us into whatever we feel like wearing today,” John walked over to the bunk and glared down at him. “Speaking of which, you know what I’m bored of? That coat. What is it with you and that coat? You know how that that silly computer feels about you – she’d be happy to zap you into any outfit you wanted, but it’s always that smegging coat! It’s not as though it’s even _cold_ in here.”

“John! Don’t be mean!” Molly had appeared on the viewscreen, her usually cheerful face creased into a small frown. “Besides, I happen to think he looks very dashing in that coat.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock murmured from the bunk.

John sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry, Molly. But since you’re here, why don’t you challenge Sherlock to a nice game of chess? He’s bored. Again.”

“Oh, god, not with her!” Sherlock waved a despairing hand from the bunk. “She’s not programmed for it at all. Everything she knows comes out of _The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Chess_.”

“That’s not true!” Molly protested. “I have a database _full_ of chess books!”

“Yes. _Chess for Dummies_ , _Teach Yourself Chess in 10 Minutes_ , _Usborne’s Complete Book of Chess_ , and _Daddy, What Does The Horsie Do?”_

Molly giggled. “That’s my favourite. The pictures are lovely!”

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, temporarily obscuring the silver ‘H’ on his forehead that marked him as a hologram. Then he looked up again as a thought struck him. “John? How about Cluedo?”

“No!” John recovered himself with some effort, then sat back down at the table and reached for his magazine. “Besides, we haven’t got it any more. I chucked it out the airlock after last time.”

“I didn’t realise you were such a pathologically sore loser.”

John opened his mouth to retort, but abruptly lost his train of thought as a striking figure materialised in the doorway. Not literally.

“Morning, everyone. How’s it all going, then? Another lovely day in space. Just trying on one of these new shirts I found in storage, what do you think?”

All eyes had turned to look, even Martha’s. Standing before them was what appeared at first glance to be a devastatingly attractive man, with a tanned face and short, silver-tipped hair. The only hints of his true nature were perhaps the hint of mischief in his eyes, or the sharpness of his chin when he smiled, showing very white teeth. He was wearing an extravagantly ruffled white shirt, an embroidered olive-green cravat, a long black tailcoat that rivalled Sherlock’s navy-blue one for ostentation, and fantastically well-fitting black trousers.

They all took in the sight, and let out a collective, unconscious sigh.

“Greg!” John said. “Come sit down, mate. You’re looking terrific, by the way. It’s all business as usual here – Sherlock was just complaining about being bored again.”

Greg sat and put his long legs up on the table, crossing them at the ankles, which only served to accentuate them. His black knee boots gleamed under the fluorescents. “Well, that’s no good, is it, Sherlock? Since I hear the Cluedo’s gone missing…” here he glanced meaningfully over at John, “…how about I set up one of those Murder Mystery games again? You enjoyed that last time.”

“Bit easy, don’t you think?”

“Oh, come on, it took you _days_ to solve it,” John said. “Just because you think you’re smarter than everyone else.”

“That’s because I _am_ smarter than everyone else. Oh, _fine_.”

“He means thank you,” John said quickly. “But do we have any new ones left? Wasn’t that dog one the last of them?”

“Hound, John, it was a gigantic hound.” Sherlock finally deigned to pull himself up to a sitting position on the bunk, wrapping his arms around his knees. “That was the key, remember.”

“Have to say I didn’t think much of it myself,” Greg said. “Dogs. Bloody great nasty horrible things.” He shuddered.

“Oh, but it was so much fun!” Molly said brightly. “Can I be a scientist again? Or anything with a white coat? It makes me feel ever so smart.”

“Pity it has no discernible impact on reality,” Sherlock commented. Molly’s lip wobbled for a moment.

“No need to be rude, Sherlock.” Greg gave him a reproving glance. “Anyway, I think we do have one more in the games cupboard. It’s got a German name, Reichen-something, but the box is in English, so it should all be sorted easily enough. Martha? What do you say?”

“Whatever you like, Greg, dear, you know I’m always happy to help out. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the ironing.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can work around that. All right, then, give me a couple of hours, I’ll see what’s needed, and give you your parts then.”

“So you mean we still have to stop Sherlock from destroying the ship for two hours?” John waved his magazine despairingly, so that the blonde starlet on the cover looked like she was having some kind of delighted seizure.

“You’re right,” Greg conceded. “I’ll read faster.”

He left the room with a small but noticeable flourish of his tailcoat, his movements swift and sleek. Everyone sighed, even Sherlock.

“My, he certainly is something, isn’t he?” Martha said, gazing after him wistfully.

“Yeah,” John said. “He can’t help it, it’s in his DNA. Silver fox and all.”

John had rescued Greg from the last S3 planet they had been on, just before the accident. Only back then, he’d had had four legs and been destined for someone’s cold-weather stole. Old traditions died hard in remote places. The stasis booth had been John’s punishment for smuggling him aboard, and the animal had been placed in quarantine, having shown no signs of being anything other than an ordinary silver fox, nowadays exotic enough in itself. However, either appearances had been deceptive, or else the radiation had triggered some latent transformative ability. Either way, he’d somehow survived. Molly had spotted him wandering the ship’s corridors afterwards, and John had christened him Greg after his favourite Zero-G football player. They’d all enjoyed having him around, for obvious reasons, although it had been a little more distracting at the beginning, before he’d been persuaded of the need to conform to the human practice of wearing clothes, at least in public. Since then, he’d taken rather enthusiastically to the idea.

Molly still had a dreamy look in her eyes, as though she were remembering the early days. “Mmm, he can wrap his fur around my diodes anytime.”

“Molly!” John said, but he was smiling.

“Oh! Sorry, did I say that out loud…? Um, I’d better go do… um, something. To do with the steering. Navigation. See you all soon!” She flashed off the screen.

“Well, I’ll be off too, dears,” Martha said. “I’m all dusted in here, but the rec-room’s still such a mess from that Cluedo you played last week. All that red paint to get off the walls, and the skutters aren’t too happy, either. You know, I had no idea you needed a re-enactment to win _._ ”

“Only when Sherlock plays it,” John said.

“I _told_ you it was a suicide.”

She tsked at them gently and then left them alone.

“I’m still bored,” Sherlock informed John, drawing out the last word in an aggravated lilt. John appeared to have given up on the magazine, and was now rummaging through his clean laundry. “Tell Molly to give my violin back,” Sherlock continued, holding up his hands in anticipation.

“No,” John said firmly. “Two more days without, and then maybe next time you’ll remember that some of us need to sleep occasionally. Go read something.”

“I’ve read every book in the ship’s library at least three times.”

“Then delete some of them from that hard drive of yours and start again.”

Sherlock made a noise of exasperation. “Possible, but entirely pointless. You really should be more sympathetic to me, John. After all, I am _dead_.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” John said. He extracted an old T-shirt and a pair of shorts from the pile. “Don’t you dare start in on that smegging ‘woe-is-me-I’m-so-dead’ routine again. That was entirely your own fault, and you know it. The Captain _told_ you not to mess with those radioactive vials, but oh, no, Sherlock Holmes the great science officer knows better than everyone.” John swiftly stripped down to his underwear and changed into the T-shirt and shorts, while Sherlock did his best to look utterly indifferent to the view. “If I hadn’t been in stasis I’d be dead, too,” John continued. “And Greg would still have four legs and be in a nice preservation zoo somewhere instead of lounging around the ship being revoltingly handsome. Not that he’s half the pain in the arse you are, either way. Just as well the stuff had such a short half-life, or else the entire human race might have died out by the time Molly let me out of there.”

“Fine. Yes. I know.” Sherlock watched as John pulled a pair of trainers out from under the table. “You needn’t rub it in.”

“Then stop your whining and find yourself something to do until Greg gets back. Preferably not anything dangerous, toxic or explosive. Now, as you’ve no doubt already deduced, I’m going for a run. I should be back in, oh, say, two hours or so.”

“How about something merely inflammable? That’s not technically dangerous. The skutters are heat-resistant up to at least 600 degrees.”

“Come on, Sherlock.” John’s voice had softened, and he sat down beside Sherlock on the bottom bunk, taking obvious consideration not to go through any part of him. “I know it can’t be easy knowing you’re dead, not being able to touch anything. But we’re all doing the best we can, yeah? Just try to, you know, accept it. You could get Molly to turn you off for a couple of hours, have a bit of a rest.”

“No! How do I know you’d turn me back on again?”

“Don’t be silly.” John straightened up from lacing his shoes, turning his full attention back to Sherlock. “‘Course I would. Life would be far too peaceful, otherwise.”

The kindness in John’s smile made Sherlock swallow, hard. They had always fought, before, in the best traditions of science officers and chief medical officers everywhere, but being dead and having wiped out most of an entire exploration ship did rather change one’s perspective on things. Despite everything, Sherlock had grown to respect John, even admire him. While John clearly missed and mourned his friends, he hadn’t shown overt hatred or hostility towards Sherlock for being the cause of their deaths. He’d given him at least a chance at friendship.

“I really am… sorry about the accident, John. You know I’m not even supposed to be here. Molly only brought me back because she thought you needed the company.”

While Sherlock had initially balked at sharing John’s quarters, it was the one thing Molly had insisted on as a condition of his revival, and since his after-life depended on it, he had agreed. Even though Molly was clearly no longer in any state to make credible pronouncements on the subject of mental health.

“It didn’t hurt that she’s always had a bit of a crush on you. Even before the accident.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I’m the science officer. I _had_ to spend a lot of time accessing her databases. It wasn’t _personal_.”

“Yeah, but it’s all the same to her.” John grinned.

“Anyway,” Sherlock said, “just another few days and we’ll be in transmission range of Themis at last. Back into the kindly arms of human civilisation. Then after they find out what happened to the rest of the crew, I’ll still be dead – just more permanently this time.”

“I won’t let them do it,” John said firmly.

“I don’t think you’ll have a choice. They’ll take one look at the incident log and switch me off again.”

John looked at him with something that was almost, but not quite, sympathy. “And yet you’re spending what you obviously consider your last few remaining hours complaining about being bored.”

“Well, it’s something to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s been three years since I got out of stasis, Sherlock. All that time drifting through deep space. I’ll argue you’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane, and that I need you. Like one of those emotional support mechanoids or something. They’ll have to keep you on.”

“Oh, thank you so much, yes, like one of those ridiculous squishy things that coos ‘you’re doing just fine’ and pats you soothingly every five minutes. I think I’d rather be dead. The proper kind.”

“You don’t mean it,” John said. “And I really do need you.”

Sherlock held his gaze in silence for a moment. He still had a range of senses via the light bee, even if touch wasn’t amongst them, and he could feel the heat of John’s presence beside him, or at least the streams of data that translated as heat. While Sherlock had always denigrated his body as transport when he was alive, there were times now that he wished most fervently that he’d appreciated it more. There was no guarantee, of course, that he would ever be closer to John than this, but it didn’t stop him contemplating the idea. Death had obviously also rendered him pointlessly maudlin. He cleared his throat and turned his head away.

“What for?” he said softly. “I’m useless like this, just light. I can’t _do_ anything any more.”

“You still have your brain. There’s still plenty you can do, nowadays. You know being dead’s…”

“…not the handicap it used to be, yes, yes, spare me the clichés. It’s still not the same, though.”

John reached out a hand instinctively, but there was nothing he could do. Instead he stood up again and started stretching a little, warming up for his run.

“There’s a few days yet,” he said. “We’ll come up with something.”

Sherlock nodded, although if he hadn’t come up with any useful defence for his alleged behaviour by now, he very much doubted John would, either. There was really only the usual argument that since his hologram was based on the last annual scan of his living self, it technically wasn’t _him_ who’d done anything wrong. However, that was a line of defence that had been overturned in the courts years ago, with only a handful of exceptions on record. Maybe it was for the best. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to keep on with this kind of half-life, anyway.

They both looked up as Molly’s flustered face suddenly appeared on the viewscreen. “Um, guys?”

John took a couple of steps towards her. “Molly, are you okay? What’s happened? Is something about to attack us?”

“Everything’s fine, John…” She trailed off, and bit her lip. “But… you know how three years ago I told you this quadrant of space was really empty, and that we couldn’t go very fast because of the engines, and that’s why we almost certainly wouldn’t come across any passing ships or inhabited S3 planets until we got to Themis?”

“Yes.”

“Well, a Space Corps cruiser’s just turned up on our right, um, I mean, starboard side. They were all anoraked, or cloaked, or something, so I didn’t see them coming. They gave me a huge fright, just popping out of space like that, right in front of me! And, um, they’re asking for Sherlock.”

“Me?” Sherlock stood up and moved to stand beside John. “Whatever for? Who is it?”

Molly’s voice sounded small and uncertain. “He says… he’s your brother?”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, that’s just _perfect_.”

“Sherlock? You have a brother? There’s two of you?”

“I assure you my brother is nothing like me. He’s an annoying, interfering prat.”

“Right. Nothing like you, then. I can’t believe I didn’t even know you _had_ a brother. What does he do?”

“He occupies a minor position in the Space Corps. By which I mean he _is_ the Space Corps, when he’s not busy being the Unified Earth Council or running Covert Interplanetary Operations.”

“God, I had no idea. In that case, I don’t know what you were worried about. They wouldn’t dare turn you off.”

“I don’t need him meddling in my death.”

A stern face appeared on the screen, eyeing them with the air of the perpetually displeased. One eyebrow lifted. “Hello, Sherlock. So, it _is_ you. My, isn’t this a surprise.” His tone of voice implied that it wasn’t the _good_ kind of surprise.

Sherlock moved to stand directly in front of the screen, his hands on his hips. “What do you want, Mycroft? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Yes, complaining about being bored, no doubt. And you must be Dr John Watson.” John nodded, fascinated by what appeared to be the first sane, living human being he had seen in years. Probably.

There was the banging of a mop and bucket outside, and then Martha bustled in from the corridor. “What’s all this about your brother showing up, Sherlock? Has he really?” Molly had clearly been spreading the word.

“Ah, and you must be Martha,” Mycroft acknowledged her politely. “A Series 4000, aren’t you? How delightful. Very reliable, the 4000s.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Martha? Remember what we practised?” John said gently.

“Oh, yes, of course, John. Thank you, Mycroft,” Martha said, more confidently. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“And I understand you also have one unclassified life-form on... Oh,” Mycroft said, his attention suddenly and entirely diverted.

“Why, hello there.” Greg had slipped gracefully into the room and taken up position next to Sherlock, smiling dazzlingly at the viewscreen. “You didn’t tell me you had such a handsome brother, Sherlock.”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock said.

“Hello… Greg,” Mycroft said, his cheeks flushing an amusing shade of pink. Greg winked at him.

“You can stop staring any time now, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was pointed.

“Right. Yes. Of course,” Mycroft said, recovering himself. “Oh, dear. I have to say this is all a most… unfortunate development.”

“I must say I wasn’t too pleased about it myself,” Sherlock snapped. “Being woken up by Molly and told I’d apparently managed to murder almost an entire ship’s crew single-handedly.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I imagine that must have come as rather a shock. Especially since you didn’t actually do it.”

“What?” Sherlock said.

“What?” John echoed, clearly too stunned to demonstrate originality.

Mycroft briefly covered his eyes with his hand, looking pained. “As I say, it’s all most unfortunate. Sherlock, Molly really had no right to bring you back as a hologram of her own initiative. And you, John, were simply a terrible oversight, as was that… uh, Greg. When the radiation leak occurred, the rest of the crew were evacuated before it had spread very far beyond the lab, and told the ship needed to be quarantined for safety, which was all true. Sherlock was the only reported casualty. The ionising radiation was powerful enough to contaminate the ship and destroy the computer’s circuitry, leaving her a derelict, of no further interest to anyone. However, Molly was more resilient than we’d ever imagined. She managed to regroup enough of her functional semi-conductors to regain both consciousness and control of the ship. However, she was no longer the computer she once was, and became quite confused at the sudden disappearance of the crew. Her records indicate she thought everyone had died, and the skutters had simply disposed of the bodies.”

“You mean that’s _not_ what happened?” Molly’s face appeared to Mycroft’s right, looking more flustered than ever.

“Anthea?” Mycroft turned slightly.

“Yes, boss.” The face of an attractive brunette appeared on Mycroft’s other side in response. She smiled at both John and Sherlock, causing John to stand just a little straighter. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Could you kindly take Molly aside and explain it all to her?” Mycroft said. “Use a slow up-link, would you?”

“Of course. Here, Molly, come with me.” Molly turned towards her gratefully, and both of them disappeared from the screen.

John slumped again, bewildered. “So… are you actually going to _tell_ us what happened, or are you just going to keep dropping vague hints in order to keep Sherlock occupied for a while? Not that that wouldn’t be helpful in its own way.”

“I think… it would probably be better to have someone else explain it to you,” Mycroft said. “ I am presently only speaking to you via datalink relay transmission, you understand, not from this ship itself. We sent him out as soon as we realised, but these things do take time.”

“Who?” John demanded. Mycroft pressed his lips together, shook his head, and vanished.

“God, he’s annoying.” Sherlock was still glaring at the screen.

They both abruptly stepped back as a shimmering column of light appeared in the bunkroom, about two feet from where they were standing. Gradually, a figure in a dark suit coalesced, and John’s eyes widened as recognition took hold.

“Hello, John,” it said, as the light faded.

The man was both incredibly familiar and completely, horribly _wrong_. John looked slowly and incredulously from the newly-materialised Sherlock to the one standing beside him. Sherlock just stared grimly at his unexpected double. Only one of them bore the ‘H’ on his forehead, and the conclusions were unmistakeable.

“Oh, god,” John said. He glanced back and forth between the two of them again. “You… you’re still… you’re not actually…”

“…dead, no,” the living Sherlock said, looking far too smug. “People were only supposed to _think_ I was dead.”

“That’s a little inconsiderate, isn’t it, dear?” Martha said. She was frowning at him.

“Wait, if you’re still alive, does that mean he… shouldn’t really be here at all?” Greg indicated the holographic Sherlock, looking confused.

“Oh, this day is just getting better and better.” Sherlock turned away from the lot of them, and went to sit back down on the bottom bunk, burying his ‘H’ in his hands.

John stepped protectively in front of him, his annoyance firmly directed at the recent arrival. “So you’ve really been alive all this time.”

“Obviously.”

“You just let me and everybody else who used to work aboard this ship _think_ you were dead.”

“Yes.”

“Right, so, let me get this straight. You and your brother destroyed Molly’s intellect, left me in stasis, and possibly triggered the creation of an entirely new species, just because you wanted people to think you were dead? You utter smegging bastard. What in hell for?”

“It was Mycroft’s idea,” the new Sherlock said defensively.

“ _Excuse me_.”

“Oh, go away, Mycroft,” both Sherlocks said in unison.

“Fine, it was both of us,” new Sherlock continued. “Let’s just say I’d developed some very powerful enemies that Mycroft wanted rid of as well, for the sake of interplanetary security.”

“You?” John said. “Powerful enemies? You mean like the dinner ladies?”

“Yes, very funny. A man called Jim Moriarty. I was working on some classified research, unravelling some biological weaponry he’d been developing. If he thought I was dead and unable to interfere with his plans, he would show his hand that much sooner, and Mycroft could locate him and his co-conspirators while I continued my work in peace.”

“Is that true?” John asked the Sherlock on the bunk.

“Well, my bio-disc was created a bit earlier, of course, but I was engaged in that research, yes. I’m afraid it certainly sounds like the sort of thing I’d do.”

John turned back to the other Sherlock. “So how did it all work out for you, then?”

“Just as planned. Word got out that I was dead, they began making advances to various terrorist and simulant organisations, and Mycroft managed to round them all up nicely. Only then did we hear that there were signs of life aboard Red Dwarf after all, and I came back to find you with due speed.”

“It’s been three years!” John was yelling now.

“Yes, well, do you have any idea how tricky it is to pick up a reading of a single human life-form on a rather large ship in the middle of deep space? We thought that with all the engines crippled it was just drifting around aimlessly on the space currents. Anyway, you were almost to an S3 planet anyway, so no harm done.”

“No, _no harm done_ , in the sense that I’m still alive, no thanks to you. Although between the space mumps, finding Martha on that deserted planet, the rogue simulants, a stasis leak, and that stupid triplicating thing Sherlock made the skutters build, I can’t say it’s been _uneventful_. You really are a complete prat, aren’t you?”

“Now, John, that’s hardly fair. I was engaged in saving the universe from Moriarty. His weaponry was effective on anything with a biological component – which includes you, Martha, and even that fox-thing.”

“Greg,” Greg said. He was now positively bristling with irritation, although it made him no less attractive.

“So, you see, really, I was just trying to protect you. All of you.”

“Well, I’m sure I never asked you to, dear,” Martha said.

“Me either,” Greg added.

“I suspect you already know what I think.” John folded his arms in disgust.

“And what about me?” Sherlock demanded from the bunk. He was rubbing his fingers fretfully over the ‘H’ on his forehead.

“What _about_ you?” the other Sherlock said. “Obviously, there can’t be two of me. You’ll have to go.”

“No,” John said suddenly.

The living Sherlock frowned, looking down at him. “No? Look, John, I know there have been times in the past when we haven’t got on terribly well…”

“You mean, at all.”

“At all, so surely you’ll be pleased to see the back of him.”

“But he’s changed. He’s not _you_ any more.”

“What do you mean? Of course he’s me. Except that legally, he doesn’t exist.”

“I mean that you… are a complete and utter smegging arsehole. What kind of self-centred twat messes with the lives of an entire ship of people, not to mention maiming a sentient computer, just so he can fake his own death?”

“You don’t understand, John, it needed to be done.”

“Right, well, I’m afraid I don’t really care. You’re alive, congratulations, now you can just sod back off to whatever you were doing and leave us alone. We’ve been managing just fine without you. Sherlock’s far better off the way he is now.”

“You mean, effectively dead.”

“Yes. He’s actually much easier to deal with, for one thing.”

“And you’re probably so much _tidier_ dead, Sherlock dear,” Martha said thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine what this place would look like if you could actually mess it up all by yourself.”

“I think you should just piss off, mate,” Greg added, startling all of them. “Whatever you’re saying, you’re not him. You’re the sort who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“But…”

“So, yeah,” John said. “I think you’ll find that’s exactly what we’re saying. I’m used to you being dead, now. We all are. Just do us a big favour, and… stay dead, would you? You spent all this time and effort convincing everyone – you’ve got no right to just swan in and fuck it all up again…”

***

_“But John… Martha… Greg… you have to understand… please…”_

_“Just leave us in peace, Sherlock, okay? It’s better this way.”_

Sherlock woke up in the tiny Hong Kong apartment with his heart hammering, and a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead that had nothing to do with the sub-tropical heat. He could still hear the rejection in John’s voice, and it felt like the worst nightmare he’d had yet. For three long years, the knowledge that the people he cared most about were safe had sustained him in his self-imposed exile. He’d always trusted that one day he would come back and explain it to them, all of them, and they would understand. Would even, in time, forgive him.

However, now it was almost time to go home, and the doubts had begun to resurface with full force. He wouldn’t know, until he returned to London, what the full cost of capturing Moriarty and his gang had been. Very soon he would have to face the people who’d mourned him, and discover whether he should have stayed dead after all. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad. Surely, they would realise he’d only done what was necessary. That it had been protection, not betrayal. He took a deep breath and lay back down, trying to relax despite the sounds of traffic and shouting drifting up from the streets below.

Just one more week and all his questions would be answered. However, there was one thing of which he was already absolutely certain. No matter how homesick he might have been for the sound of British accents, taking in that _Red Dwarf_ marathon on satellite TV last night had been a truly terrible idea.


End file.
